Millions of Civilians

I'm not like them
But I can pretend
My heart is broke
But I have some glue

And it's called sex, and all those other memorable lyrics, SaidSpunSung by ShotgunSuicide kids everywhere.  Yeah, he's just a culture critic and never meaning to short circuit to center of my hap-hap-haphazard crazy labyrinth; and I'm just his martyr in moderation.  The u-word is just a simple mathematical statement describing the bizarre Euclidean love polygon with vertices at (lose, lose, lose), where one is you, one is them, and the other is a ghost.  Primitive notions are scary!  Ask any skeptical has-been mathematician.

And yet, upon inspection, I noted no obvious signs of settlement; all interested parties are encouraged to satisfy themselves by enlisting and trusting in and submitting to: the power of a voice of authority.  To be the one they're with but not the one they wish for feels like the height of low.  Ten years on now, and I'm still writing the same words over and over and over and over and over and over and over.  But I'm far from done.  And then, in the post-coital morning golden hour, he turns on the English Patient, and (in my head) I weep for the bastard husband that I'm sure that I am (in my head) and I put on my street shades and go get some fuckin' pancakes, because that's what any good wife would do.

Everyone just wants to be loved for who they are.  Plus, at least seven other caveats.